“It is always possible to see the Institution, monsieur. Her Majesty would never consent to interfere with the work of the good sisters, who are a blessing to the whole countryside. But her own apartments, and a small enclosed garden upon which they look, are sacred to her. She receives no one, and she has not quitted the Institution since first she entered it.”
“Never left the one spot!” cried Mansfield, aghast. “Surely she must—I mean, has she taken any vows?”
“The Lutherans are not like the Orthodox or the Latins, monsieur, and their deaconesses are not bound by irrevocable vows. It is her Majesty’s pleasure not to receive, and it is not for us to question it. The emissaries of the King and the Princess of Dardania made themselves so obnoxious on her first arrival that, outraged by their presumption and persistence, she came to this resolution. And is there any one who has a right to decide for her Majesty in the matter?”
“Certainly not,” said Mansfield politely, for the tone of the question was fierce.
“There is a certain person,” pursued M. Stefanovics, “attached to the household of the Princess of Dardania—a Colonel Czartoriski, I believe—who has been hanging about this neighbourhood for weeks, riding up from Damascus day after day, in the hope of being received by her Majesty and delivering into her hands a letter from his mistress. Of course he has not been successful. Is it likely that her Majesty would receive him, when we, her two faithful servants, have never been permitted to see her face the whole time she has been here?”
“You have never once seen her?” cried Mansfield.
“Stefanovics, you talk too much,” said General Banics again.
“And why should we be granted such an honour?” asked M. Stefanovics, trying to cover his confusion. “If her Majesty, deceived and forsaken by the man she trusted—no, General, I mention no names—and by her own son, chooses to confine herself to the society of her ladies, who will venture to blame her? The decision lies entirely with her.”
“Her Majesty’s retirement is very sad, but no doubt it is natural,” agreed Mansfield, whose heart had sunk lower and lower as he discerned each fresh obstacle in the way of his mission. In his own mind he was convinced that the Queen was mad, but in the hope that sheer audacity might succeed where the courtly training of the two Thracians held them back, he determined to make an effort to penetrate into her presence, that he might at least know the worst. He answered with much patience the questions which M. Stefanovics, who had relieved his mind by his outburst of confidence, showered upon him, and took his leave when the meal was over without disclosing on whose behalf he had come. He observed that neither M. Stefanovics nor the General asked any questions about the great Palestine scheme, and that they both ignored the tentative references he made to it; and it seemed to him that to proclaim himself Cyril’s emissary would be to destroy the small hope of success he still possessed. Leaving Uncle Sam and the horses at the inn, he climbed the path to the Institution on foot, and asked the lame Syrian who acted as porter whether it was possible for him to see the place. The man bade him enter.
“The lady there is the senior sister,” he said, indicating a stately woman in the blue dress and white cap of the Königshof deaconesses, who was passing along the piazza. “She will direct you.”